


can't tame (a wild heart)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: His hair was a dirty white, half-pulled back in a tie, and he had the most striking eyes Jaskier had ever seen.Oh,he thought as he approached his table,I could write endless sonnets about those eyes.That wasn’t the point, he had to remind himself. He was here for his innate curiosity, the need to know the truth. Or, if he were more honest, the need to prove his father wrong.“I know who you are,” Jaskier said as he slid into the chair across from him. He lifted his gaze to Jaskier, blankly staring. “Geralt. The Butcher of Blaviken.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 255





	can't tame (a wild heart)

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo this is the first fic in a while i wrote just for myself i hope yall enjoy <3
> 
> twitter: queermight  
> tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier remembered the first time he heard about witchers; he was barely a boy, sitting at the table for dinner with his family. His father spit the term out like it was an insult, and his mother shook her head sadly, like she felt for the poor souls. He exchanged a look with his sisters, who seemed disinterested as they did with most things.

It was always Jaskier being the difficult one, the curious one, the _challenging_ one.

“Have you ever met one?” he asked his father with wide eyes.

His father looked over at him with a disapproving frown. Jaskier was used to that. “I don’t need to,” he said firmly. “Everyone knows that witchers are no different from the monsters they hunt.”

Jaskier was doubtful. Difficult, curious, challenging, and _doubtful_. He never believed blindly. “I don’t think you should judge unless you’ve met one,” he said with a definite nod.

His father sat up a little straighter, eyes flashing. Thankfully, Jaskier’s mother wasn’t quite as cruel. She smiled tensely.

“Julian, love,” she said. “Why don’t you retire for the night? I’ll have dessert brought up to you.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to reply, because he didn’t feel like retiring just yet, but a pleading look from his mother had him pushing his chair back and leaving for his room. He didn’t ask his parents about witchers again, especially his father, as he grew older and understood self-preservation a little more, but he never lost interest.

*

When he was twelve, a pretty girl visited their town with her father. They were travelers, she told him, and Jaskier was instantly jealous. As if noticing, she knocked their knees together as they sat above a brightly gleaming river. The river had been Jaskier’s solace since he was young, and she—Mala—was the first person he’d shown it.

“You could come with us,” she said.

Jaskier stared at the water, glistening prettily under the sun. “I can’t,” he said, because a lot of his stubbornness had been wrung out of him by twelve. Still there, surely, but buried deeply. “My father wouldn’t like it. I’m supposed to stay here, take over the estate.”

Mala side-eyed him. Her brown hair was thin and stringy, her eyes a muted green. Jaskier still thought she was the most beautiful person he’d ever met. “You’re old enough to make your own decisions,” she said. “Come with me.”

He looked away. “Your father wouldn’t like it,” he tried instead, but he had met the man. He wasn’t like Jaskier’s father. He had kind eyes.

Instead of arguing, she simply leaned her head on his shoulder. “You won’t stay here,” she said, spoken as if she knew, as if she had seen the future.

“How do you know that?” he challenged.

Mala smiled a little. “Because you’re like me,” she said. “You’ll want more. And they’ll try to make you feel guilty for it.” She lifted her head, turning to him. She gripped his hand, hard. “Don’t let them. Follow your heart.”

Jaskier lightly squeezed her hand back. “Can I ask you about it?” he asked. At her confused expression, he ducked his head shyly. “Life beyond here.”

“You’ll just torture yourself,” she said softly but then, “Go on.”

He asked her many questions, about what kind of bards she had met (he told her about his own lute, how his father had finally caved in and bought him one but only on the condition he wouldn’t slack in his studies), the kind of people she had met, the sights she had seen, if she’d ever seen a monster.

Finally he paused, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Mala smiled knowingly.

“What is it?” she asked.

Jaskier swallowed. “Have you ever met those who hunt them? Monsters, I mean.” He paused again, heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t even uttered the word since that night so many years ago. “Witchers.”

Mala’s eyes widened a little. He tensed, knowing what she was going to say long before she opened her mouth, “Why do you want to know about them?” She looked unsure, confused.

“I—don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Just wondering if the rumors are true.”

Mala tilted her head back and forth. “I’ve never met one,” she admitted finally. “But on the road, you hear things.” She side-eyed him with a small frown. “Bad things, mostly.”

Jaskier’s heart fell to the very deepest pits of his stomach. “Oh.”

“Rumors are rumors for a reason,” she quickly added. “Like I said, I’ve never met one and I don’t believe in hearsay.”

Jaskier stared at her. She seemed genuine. “I wish I could go with you,” he confessed, and she squeezed his hand again.

“You’ll have your own adventures one day,” she said with a finality that was hard to doubt.

*

When Jaskier was fourteen, he was sent to Oxenfurt to learn how to be a _proper_ man. As much as he hated his father, and liked to be disobedient, Jaskier was actually excited for the chance to be on his own.

Except—

Oxenfurt was not what he’d been looking for. It wasn’t the freedom he’d been seeking. He thought of Mala and wished he could write her.

He stayed, hoping the longing would leave his chest and he could be _normal_.

But after four years, he graduated and was offered a teaching position. He opened his mouth. Every word he had ever known had died on his tongue.

“Did you hear?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped to the side; walking down the hall were two students, whispering to each other. He didn’t know how, but he _knew_ what they were talking about. Deep in his chest, he could feel it. He stepped to the side and blocked their path, smiling widely.

Thankfully he had his good looks and so the two students—young women—simply stopped, flushing deeply.

“Gossiping is no good,” he said with a wink, “unless, of course, you’re a poet like me.”

A shy giggle, and one of the girls leaned in, lowering her voice, “The Butcher of Blaviken is in Aedirn.”

Jaskier blinked once. He had heard of the Butcher of Blaviken, they all had. Apparently the man had slaughtered dozens of humans for the mere fun of it, or so the story had went. As always, Jaskier had been doubtful. He hummed. “And do you know why?”

“For a job, if I had to guess,” the other girl said with a hint of amusement.

Jaskier smiled charmingly at her and stepped back out of their way. “Don’t want to be late.”

Once the students had disappeared from sight, Jaskier returned to the other professor and smiled again. He knew what he wanted to do, finally.

“Unfortunately, I think I would like a small break from the academic life,” he said breezily.

He wrote a letter to his mother the day before he left. He knew it would be a while before she received it, but frankly it was more than he might’ve done if he’d still been that bitter fourteen year old. Now he was his own person, fresh-faced but old enough to make his own decisions, happy to move on and leave his old life behind. He understood that his mother had been a victim in her own way, and she’d always been kind enough.

Jaskier made no mention of his father in the letter. As far as he was concerned, he’d been dead to him for a long time.

*

Jaskier found the Butcher of Blaviken in a small tavern a few towns over from Aedirn. He was, and _wasn’t_ , quite like the rumors. He was a big man by all accounts; though not much taller than Jaskier, he made up for it in bulkiness, wide, wide shoulders and strong arms. His hair was a dirty white, half-pulled back in a tie, and he had the most striking eyes Jaskier had ever seen.

_Oh_ , he thought as he approached his table, _I could write endless sonnets about those eyes._

That wasn’t the point, he had to remind himself. He was here for his innate curiosity, the need to know the truth. Or, if he were more honest, the need to prove his father wrong.

“I know who you are,” Jaskier said as he slid into the chair across from him. He lifted his gaze to Jaskier, blankly staring. “Geralt. The Butcher of Blaviken.”

He supposed he understood the rumors, now, being so close. He could see how some people would be scared of Geralt with his blank eyes and all those _scars_. _Every scar had a story_ , his mother used to tell him, and suddenly he wanted to know all of Geralt’s stories.

He wasn’t scared, of course. He’d be scared once he had a reason to be.

“I’m here to drink alone,” he replied, and Jaskier’s eyes flickered to the half-empty tankard in his fist. He smiled slyly.

He had heard enough rumors to know witchers weren’t nearly paid as well as they should be, if they were paid at all. Jaskier put his chin in the palm of his hand, tilting his head slightly. “I understand,” he assured him, “but what if I made it worth your time?”

Geralt didn’t reply, or even blink. Jaskier somehow knew that was a good sign. He wasn’t shutting him down.

“I just have a few questions, you see, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” Very lovely hair, he thought idly, even with all the tangles. Poor man had never seen a brush a day in his life, apparently. “And while we talk,” he continued, “I’ll buy you as many ales as you want.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, “And if I want twenty?” he asked. “Thirty?”

Jaskier blinked. “Do witchers have a high tolerance for alcohol?” he asked curiously. Geralt stared at him for a short moment before shaking his head. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say that was an amused quirk to his mouth. He preened at the accomplishment. “Right, well, I have the funds. Drink as much as you’d like.”

“How?” he shot back.

It took him a moment to understand the question. “I’m a bard,” he said, gesturing to the lute near his feet. He had considered playing tonight, even, before he had spotted the brooding handsome stranger in the corner. “Not quite accomplished enough to be known by name - yet - but I’m getting by.”

“And what?” he replied, a sudden bitterness to his deep voice. “You want inspiration for your stories?”

Jaskier blinked slowly, surprised by the sudden shift. He hadn’t even considered that, actually, though he supposed that would be smart. He could use Geralt’s adventures as inspiration for many ballads, he was sure, but. “Not if you don’t want me to,” he answered softly. “Though, it might help your reputation.” Geralt hummed, looking away. Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek, considering what to say next. “Is it true?”

He watched as Geralt tensed, clenching his jaw. Jaskier was sure, after a moment, he wouldn’t get an answer, but then—“Which part?” he asked gruffly, turning back to him.

Jaskier shrugged. “Any of it, I suppose.”

“I killed those men,” he said simply. “That much is true.”

Jaskier nodded. Geralt watched him closely, as if waiting for something. He wasn’t sure what. Finally, he seemed to relax.

“Well, I’m sure you had your reasons,” he said confidently. Geralt blinked once.

“What?” he asked in disbelief, and Jaskier smiled brightly. Twisting around, he waved down the server.

Once she was close enough, he ordered two more rounds of ale.

“Did you fall on your head as a baby?” Geralt asked once he had turned back around, deathly serious.

Jaskier hummed. “If I did, I don’t remember,” he answered truthfully. “Now do you want the ale or not?”

Geralt watched him for a long moment, quietly thinking. Finally he gave a short nod, downing the rest of his drink. Jaskier smiled. Even then, he had known his father - and all the others - had been wrong. Geralt was no monster, and eventually he would learn the extent of the truth.

*

Jaskier followed Geralt. What surprised him was what he _let_ him; he put up a fight, sure, but not enough of one. Jaskier knew if he really wanted him gone, he could accomplish it by leaving in the morning before Jaskier woke up (Geralt was always awake before him) or taking off on the back of Roach, knowing Jaskier couldn’t follow fast enough.

But he didn’t.

He also didn’t talk a lot, but that was fine. Jaskier could learn the truth in other ways, like watching him. He could pick up on many things just by watching, a talent he had acquired at a young age. His father hadn't liked his questions, and so he found other ways to get his answers. For starters, he had learned after just a few days that Geralt was surprisingly _gentle_.

He treated Roach like she was delicate, and always made sure Jaskier ate first.

_What a monster_ , he thought, watching as Geralt brushed Roach one evening. The fire was warm on his face. He had tried to slowly pick more information about Blaviken out of Geralt, but so far he’d had no luck. He supposed, truthful or not, it was a sore subject.

“Do you mind if I play?” he asked. Geralt simply grunted, and Jaskier reached for his lute. “I don’t understand why you never let me accompany you,” he spoke as he strummed lazily. Geralt didn’t reply. “I really could help your reputation, Geralt. These people see you as some _monster_ —”

He suddenly turned, holding the brush with a frown. “And you think you could change that?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, closed it. “I could try.”

Geralt hmmed, walking over to the fire. He sat and placed the brush aside. “I killed those men because I had to,” he said after a long moment of silence. Jaskier didn’t look at him, stared instead at the fire. “I didn’t want to. I never _want_ to.”

“You were protecting yourself,” he said.

Geralt breathed out. Jaskier looked up, finally.

“What?” he asked, knowing there was more. Geralt shrugged sharply.

“A young girl was there,” he said. “I was protecting her as well.”

Jaskier let out a small and entirely humorless laugh. Of course. “You were—and they have the gall to call _you_ a monster?”

Geralt looked off to the side. Roach snorted and shuffled closer, like she could sense the tension and wanted to help. “I was the last one standing with blood on my sword,” he said, like that explained it.

“Yes, well, _fuck_ them,” he said. “I can’t promise to fix anything but you can’t stop me from trying.”

Geralt glanced at him with the smallest of smiles. Jaskier still counted it as a win, heart blooming in his chest like a flower in the spring.

*

Geralt still never let him follow on hunts, or answered any of his questions. His first few songs about Geralt had been a hit, one that rewrote the history of Blaviken and a few others that he’d written using his own imagination.

“Inaccurate,” Geralt would say, and Jaskier would pout.

“Might not be if a certain white-haired bastard wasn’t so stingy with the details,” he’d reply.

The only good part of those moments were Geralt’s small smiles.

Finally it was time for Geralt to leave him. Jaskier suddenly felt like a child again as he watched Geralt pack up his things. “I will be waiting,” Jaskier said. “Once you get back, I want at least one decent story.”

Geralt mounted Roach and smirked down at him. “Keep dreaming, bard,” he said with a fondness that had Jaskier’s heart swelling painfully in his chest. Just a little under a year and already Jaskier thought he’d be happy to never leave Geralt’s side again.

His father had been so, _so_ wrong.

Jaskier almost asked if he could go with him in those last few seconds, but he didn’t. He knew Geralt would offer when - and if - he was ready. Kaer Morhen was his home, even if all the memories weren’t pleasant. Jaskier understood, as a concept, what homes meant to people. For Jaskier, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt that connection, but he understood it.

“Be safe,” Jaskier said.

Geralt nodded once. “That’s my line.”

“You wish,” Jaskier said as he patted his lute. “I can take care of myself.”

Geralt snorted before he turned Roach and they started down the path, away from Jaskier. Jaskier tried not to be too disappointed. They had plans to meet again, at least, which was more than Jaskier could’ve hoped for at the beginning.

*

Geralt was a couple days late. Jaskier didn’t doubt he’d come, not even for a second, the man didn't make a promise he couldn't keep, but he _was_ worried. What if something had happened to him on the road? Would he ever know? Finally on the third day, he showed up. Jaskier carelessly rushed forward as he climbed down from Roach, throwing his arms around him. Geralt’s only reaction was a shocked grunt. Slowly he slid his arms around Jaskier’s waist.

He pulled back. “I was worried,” he admitted, and Geralt stared at him for a moment. Jaskier had grown quite good at reading him over the last year and he could tell that he was deep in thought. “What?” he asked with a small frown. “ _Are_ you okay?”

A quick look confirmed that he was okay, though he did have a new scar under his jaw. Jaskier lightly touched it. He could feel Geralt holding his breath. He only relaxed again once Jaskier’s hand had fell away.

“I am,” he answered gruffly. “Just—I’ve been thinking.”

Jaskier blinked once. “Um. Okay.” He smiled slightly, unsure. “About?”

Geralt’s eyes flickered off to the side and back again. He seemed to square his shoulders, standing a little taller. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to expect. “Accompany me on a hunt,” he said. It wasn’t an offer as much as a demand.

As if Jaskier would ever decline such an offer. “What?” he blurted, before noting the tension in Geralt’s shoulders; he was _nervous_. Jaskier didn’t understand why, unless he was afraid of Jaskier getting hurt in his care but—“I mean, yes! I can take care of myself, I swear.”

He did have a dagger, though it hadn’t seen much use over the years.

Geralt nodded curtly. “Tomorrow,” he said. “There’s a griffin that’s been causing trouble.”

Jaskier brightened. A _griffin_. “Okay, yes.” His first truthful ballad to be about a griffin, what luck. Though, as he stared up at the night sky, he couldn’t help feeling pity for the creature. If the griffins were like the stories, they were magnificent beasts. He hated to see one be cut down, even by Geralt. Sighing, he rolled over.

Next to him, on his own bedroll, was Geralt. Jaskier could tell he wasn’t asleep quite yet.

“I hope you can make it quick,” he said quietly.

Geralt just hmmed.

*

In the morning, Jaskier sat with Geralt and had breakfast. “Are griffins as beautiful as the stories depict them?” he asked. He didn’t expect an answer, given their history, but surprisingly Geralt peered at him from across the fire with a small smile.

“You’ll find out, won’t you?” he teased, and Jaskier smiled back.

The easy relaxation of the early breakfast quickly wore off as they packed their things and headed off. For the first time, ever, Geralt allowed Jaskier on the back of Roach. Jaskier took advantage, of course, snugly wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist.

The ride was fairly short, just a few hours toward the east. In the mountains, Jaskier squeezed a little tighter. Looking down, he could see a few towns in the distance, each separated by a few miles.

“Has the griffin killed anyone?” he asked, unable to resist.

Geralt grunted, “Not from what I heard. Has been stealing livestock, though. Terrifying the children.”

Jaskier nodded, stomach twisting. The poor thing hadn’t even killed a human and soon it would be dead for simply existing, for doing what any animal had to do to survive. Once they were close enough - or so Jaskier assumed because Geralt had pulled Roach to a stop and climbed down, offering him a hand that he gladly took - Jaskier's anxiety returned like a knife to the gut.

“I’m assuming a dagger won’t do much good, will it?” he asked, even as he produced the small weapon from his boot. Geralt eyed it with a frown.

“Put it away,” he said gruffly, and Jaskier obeyed easily.

He trusted Geralt to protect him, more than he had ever trusted his own father. Geralt continued down the path and Jaskier followed silently, leaving his lute behind with Roach. Jaskier kept looking over at Geralt’s swords, strapped to his back.

“Stop staring,” he heard. “Didn’t your father ever tell you it was rude?”

Jaskier smiled slightly. “Actually, he was a fairly rude man.”

Geralt side-eyed him and grunted lowly. He didn’t look guilty - he didn’t ever look _guilty_ \- but understanding. Jaskier jumped when he heard the first sign of life, _inhuman_ life: a distant thump and then a rumbling roar, distant but close enough to be worrying.

“Get behind me,” he said, and Jaskier went easily, stepping behind him and peering over his shoulder.

As they continued, he spotted the opening of a cave and knew somehow that they had found the griffin. “Do they usually live in caves?” he asked curiously, hushed.

Geralt grunted, “No.”

He sounded confused as well and that wasn’t exactly comforting. Geralt slowly approached the opening with Jaskier lingering a few steps behind, waiting. Suddenly there was another roar, louder than the last, and the head of the beast stuck out from the cave. Jaskier had read many stories of griffins but seeing one in real life was—mesmerizing.

A beast of beauty. Beautiful _and_ terrifying.

Stepping out from the cave, the creature released its wings, fluttering them once, twice before reaching their full length. Yellow eyes, as striking as Geralt’s, a strong beak, talons that Jaskier knew could easily gut a human in seconds.

He couldn’t look away.

Until—the griffin stepped closer and his heart started to beat again. Beak opening, the creature let out another bellow that shook the ground they stood on. Jaskier slapped blindly at Geralt. A dagger _definitely_ wouldn’t have been enough. “Geralt,” he hissed. “ _Do_ something.”

He expected Geralt to reach for one of his swords, not to lift a steady hand to the creature’s beak. The griffin looked nearly human, staring at them with startlingly intelligence.

“I understand,” Geralt said, and then Jaskier watched as he moved his fingers, slow and steady. He thought his hand looked like it glowed for a second. The griffin let out a smaller sound, almost sad, before ducking its head. Geralt smiled slightly as he pressed his hand to its beak and left it there. “You’re okay,” he said, just loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the creature or him.

“It’s a female,” Geralt said as the griffin nuzzled his hand like your average house cat, pitifully small all of a sudden.

Jaskier swallowed around the lump of fear in his throat, forcing his shoulders down. He trusted Geralt. If they were in danger, he would say so or do something, not pet the creature. “How do you know?” he asked quietly.

Geralt eyed him with a smirk. “Look,” he said, and Jaskier followed his line of sight inside the cave. Babies. Griffins, just like their mother but so small, so weak. His heart ached as he let out a shaky breath.

“Is that why—?”

Geralt nodded, “Griffins aren’t violent creatures, but after birth they can get panicked, act out in usual ways.” He continued to pet her beak. “She was just scared.”

Jaskier let out a small laugh, unable to help himself, disbelieving and a little in love with the man standing beside him. “So - so what?” he asked, glancing between him and the griffin. “You just leave her, now?” Geralt nodded again, and he couldn’t quite believe it was so easy. “And she won’t wreck havoc again?”

“She won’t,” he said. “She knows her children will be safe.”

Jaskier nodded. For once in his life he was at a loss for words. Geralt side-eyed him.

“Come here,” he ordered gruffly, as if reading Jaskier’s mind. He stepped up and Geralt removed his hand. “Go on.”

Jaskier wasn’t so sure the griffin would be so welcoming to him but he had to try. He reached out slowly and placed his hand on her beak; it was warm under his touch. He laughed again as she nuzzled the palm of his hand. “Geralt, I think - I think she likes me.”

He snorted. “Not a very good judge of character, then.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, used to his jabs. They stayed with the griffin for a while. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t let them too close to her babies but Jaskier supposed a mother’s maternal instinct was just too powerful, even for Geralt.

Finally it was time to leave. Jaskier followed Geralt back to Roach, still speechless.

“What just happened?” he asked as they rode back down the mountain.

Geralt grunted, “Dinner first,” he said. “You can ask what you want later.”

Jaskier knew he’d regret that, because he had _so many_ questions.

*

Jaskier tried to be patient, really, but even the familiar taste of rabbit wasn’t enough to quell his curiosity. Finally Geralt sighed heavily, peering at him with the smallest of smiles, like he was trying to hide his amusement and failing gravely. Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek.

“Go on,” he said gruffly, and Jaskier let out a deep breath.

“You didn’t kill that griffin,” he said, speaking quickly, “which now has me wondering if you’ve killed _any_ of the many monsters you took contracts out on.”

He had gone on many jobs while traveling with Jaskier, but he had always been strict about Jaskier not following, mostly for his own safety but now he had to wonder if there had been other reasons as well, like not wanting Jaskier to know his little secret.

“Geralt,” he said, seriously. “Are you a monster whisperer?”

The laugh he heard from across the fire was enough to make him grin. Geralt’s laughs were like rare gems; Jaskier cherished every single one.

“It’s—complicated,” he said finally. Jaskier waited patiently, now, for him to form his thoughts. Geralt looked off to the side, mouth twisting. “It isn’t fully incorrect,” he continued after a long pause, turning back to Jaskier. “Some witchers do kill monsters. Even humans for the right price.” Geralt pulled his medallion out; Jaskier eyed the wolf on it. “But we don’t. We developed ways to—to tame them, if you will.”

Jaskier was awed, truly. “How?” he breathed.

Geralt looked almost sheepish as he shrugged, tucking his medallion away again. “Magic. Signs, to be specific.”

“Like what I saw,” he interrupted. Geralt nodded.

“Most beasts are just frightened, acting out of fear or survival. We help, in the small way we can.”

Jaskier was awed, and a little angry. “These people think you’re a killer, Geralt,” he said, feeling angry on his behalf, as he was ought to do, because these people treated Geralt like he was a _monster_. Like he got off on killing or something. All this time, secretly, he’d been helping these poor beasts. He was the only one _willing_ to help them. “Why haven’t you tried to get the truth out there?”

Geralt frowned. “I can’t,” he said gruffly, and Jaskier frowned back.

“And why not?” he asked. “I know words aren’t exactly your forte, Geralt, but _I_ could—”

He could write some new ballads that showcased Geralt’s softness, the _real_ him. But Geralt shook his head, quick and firm.

“If they knew I weren’t killing their monsters, they’d just hire someone else. That bastard would just be killed, or the monster, or both.”

Jaskier blinked, not understanding. Geralt sighed.

“ _Taming_ isn’t enough for them,” he continued, and Jaskier didn’t miss the hint of bitterness to his voice, familiar to it. “They want their heads on a stick, and thankfully I’ve found my ways around that, but if they knew the truth… those poor creatures would still be killed, just not by me.”

Jaskier hated that he knew Geralt was right. Humans were so cruel.

“But without the truth… they will continue to think you’re someone you’re not, Geralt,” he said, wishing desperately he knew a way to fix this - to protect the monsters who deserved it and Geralt, who mattered to him more than anyone ever had. Before him, it had only been Mala but what he felt for her was dust compared to what he felt for Geralt after only just a year.

Geralt shrugged, looking unbothered. “I don’t care what they think,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier frowned. “You do,” he said softly. “I know you do, Geralt.”

“Fine,” he replied, as much as an admission as anything, “but the monsters come first.” He tilted his chin up. “Part of the job.”

Jaskier smiled slightly. “You are a good man, Geralt. Better than they will ever know.” No matter how many ballads he wrote, they would never know the true core of Geralt. Suddenly he hated his father for his ignorance. So easily that ignorance could’ve rubbed off on him.

“Mm.” Geralt looked away. “The people that matter know,” he said, low and rough. “That’s what matters.”

There was no missing the implication that Jaskier was one of those people. He had been waiting for this and now he didn’t know what to say to it. Instead he said nothing for once in his life and stood up, walking around the fire to sit next to Geralt, close enough that their shoulders touched every few seconds.

Jaskier leaned his head on Geralt’s shoulder, hoping it would be okay. He assumed it was, based on the fact Geralt didn’t push him away or even shrug him off. With a sigh, he watched the fire and enjoyed the best company he’d ever had.


End file.
